


Scarlet Wisteria Tree

by MerriWyllow



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Drama, F/M, Future Fic, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:56:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MerriWyllow/pseuds/MerriWyllow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Scarlet Runner Vines". AU. No particular spoilers. "She sat at a table on a rooftop cafe, indulging in a hot fudge sundae. Once a month on a sunny evening this would be her dinner."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Agent Lisbon of the California Bureau of Investigation retired with a total of thirty-one years of service - eight with San Francisco PD and twenty-three with the state. She got a decent pension, but she took a job consulting with an elite private security firm - in part to keep busy, and in part to double up on mortgage payments. She wanted that burden lifted so she could ponder what she really wanted to do with the rest of her life. At fifty-two, she had long since passed the point where the physicality of field work brought her any joy. It was not so much that she could no longer take down a fleeing criminal in a pinch, but getting up again hurt like hell and the aches and pains would echo in her bones for weeks afterward. Desk duty, no matter the level of responsibility had never been a favorite.

She sat at a table on a rooftop cafe, indulging in a hot fudge sundae. Once a month on a sunny evening this would be her dinner. Taking a bite, she closed her eyes to concentrate on the pleasure of warm fudge sauce contrasted against cold ice cream, and chocolate against vanilla. Taking a deep breath, she looked out over the scattered people strolling along the sidewalks below. She listened to the pop music from the boom-box at the servers' station and turned back to her ice cream. Even as the fudge sauce cooled and the ice cream melted, she ate slowly, smiling sometimes between bites.

Over the course of months following this habit, she occasionally thought she saw familiar figures as people walked past. Most of the time, similarities were coincidental, though sometimes it would turn out to be a friend or acquaintance. One notable time, recognizing a tall back with a wide set of shoulders resulted in a not-entirely awkward chance to catch up with Rigsby's teenaged son, who had grown at least eleven inches since a picnic with her old team and their families last year. Dopplegangers of impossible people - friends she knew to be elsewhere or dead - earned a slight, uneasy catch of her breath or a wistful smile.

There was one she had gotten a glimpse of near several of her haunts recently. The familiar ache she felt at anything that made her remember that one - it was like scratching a mosquito bite that was already bloody, feeling almost as good as it hurt and making her feel foolish for not having better self-control.

It was better for her peace of mind to concentrate on the sundae ritual. So she closed her eyes and took another bite. She focused on her senses - listening to the music, soaking in the sun at her back. Briefly she thought she felt eyes on her, but quickly shook the feeling off. Then she opened her own eyes to continue people-watching. When the ice cream was gone, she sat there for a few minutes more.

Then gathering herself, she got up, left money on the table, and exited. Back on the street, her mind kept playing tricks on her. She heard her name spoken quietly in a man's voice. She had heard it before over the years. The voice lived in her mind. Turning to look would be crazy-making. She had learned to steel herself against it. The ghosts of her imagination did her heart no favors. Her awareness of the crowd around her made her stretch her senses. Though age had diminished her speed and agility, experience sharpened her sensitivity to her surroundings. And any thug who targeted her might well find himself surprised by this fifty-something, petite woman's ability to drop him like a stone.

She heeded the urge to dodge into a more defensible position. In this case, it was a boutique with large windows. She made a show of browsing racks of merchandise near the front, scanning passersby as she did so. After some time had passed, she placed a call to Van Pelt, whose office was nearby, and resumed her walk. They chatted cheerfully, and Lisbon made sure to mention where she was, talking about what shops she was passing and describing the people around her. If she was imagining things, there was no harm in continuing their friendly conversation. If there was trouble, then someone capable of acting knew her immediate location.

She reached her own office. Greeting the building's security guard, she stated her intent to grab the file for a an event the next month and head home. In the stillness, she relaxed her own wariness just a bit. Unlike her habits of years before, she did quickly retrieve the folder she wanted and head out to the parking garage where her car was. On the alert when she saw a strange man leaning against her Mustang convertible, she palmed her gun.

As she approached, she called from a distance, "Something I can help you with?"

"Maybe, Lisbon. Care to explain why you didn't answer when I called out to you on the street earlier?"

The voice was familiar, as out of a dream. The closer she got to him, the more impossible it felt.

"I didn't hear anyone - "

"That you were willing to admit to."


	2. Chapter 2

Close enough to see him, her heart leaped into her mouth, but not from fear. Instead it was the shock of recognition and of disbelief in what she saw. "I used to hear your voice in my mind, all too often. How - "

"Surely you suspected I rigged the car accident? If everyone else believed I was dead, you at least had reason to suspect it was a rouse."

"So much time passed, and not a word from you - I didn't know what to think. Did you expect me to keep looking for you around every corner all this time?"

"No. I suppose not. But I'm hoping - " He paused. "There are things I want to talk to you about. I don't really want to do that in a parking garage. Is there somewhere we can go?"

"I was going home. You might as well come with me."

"Thank you."

She floated between joy at seeing him and anger that he had been gone so long and fear that when he left again she would ache as badly as she had the last time. "Why have you come back now?"

"Why did I stay away so long, you mean."

She responded only by unlocking the car doors and getting in. He followed and as he clicked his seat belt, he continued, "I found him. I killed him, Lisbon. He smiled when he mentioned your name. He must have thought it would distract me enough that he could get the drop on me. It did for a moment. You will be pleased to know he got the first few cuts in before I pulled a weapon - so it was at least as much self-defense as it was premeditated. I dared not come back to you then. Who knows how many other friends he had, ready to carry out their own vengeance."

"And now you come back?"

"I wanted to see you. I've wanted to see you every day since I left - make sure you were ok, safe, happy."

She did not know how to respond to that, so she fell silent.

Very quietly he said, "I did see you a few times. Minelli's funeral. When Cho - " At her pained look, he skipped ahead. "The last time was after that head injury - you had regained consciousness by the time I got here, but you were asleep." He fiddled with the radio, never quite satisfied enough with any of the music he heard to stay with one station for more than two songs. The drive to her place seemed to take longer than it ever had before.

She ushered him into her house. When she shut the door behind them, he turned to her. His eyes locked onto hers when he said, "Teresa, please tell me you don't hate me."

"You came back to see me when I couldn't see you - so you get the comfort, and I get the decade and more of silence. What do you want from me, Jane?"

"Want? I want what I wanted twelve years ago. Call me by my first name."

"You just told me you got what you wanted back then - Red John dead."

"That was what I needed - Red John dead, and you safe. What I wanted wasn't an option."

She gave him a hard look and waited.

"I wanted you. You know that. You had to know that."

"Ja - Patrick, I stopped knowing anything when it comes to you the moment you snapped the handcuffs over my wrist and left me. You can't think that would have no effect on how I feel, that I would just get over it, that you could come back now and we'd pick up right where we left off."

"Tell me you felt betrayed, brokenhearted, angry, then. Tell me you wanted to punch me or shoot me. It's perfectly reasonable. But tell me you don't hate me."

"I don't think I can - "

"Which? Hate me or tell me that you don't?"

"It's not that easy. I don't think I can give you what you want."

"It could be that easy. Let me show you again."

"No - tomorrow when I wake up and this was all a dream, it won't have been a happy dream. Last time you left, it hurt; I can't tell you how much. The nightmares will kill me, but I'll still have to get up and go to work. I can't afford to be a zombie again."

"Teresa, this is real. I won't have to leave again. It'll be good this time."

"You make promises like a deadbeat." She spoke quietly, weary and defeated. It was less an accusation than it was a way to keep herself from giving in to him. Still, anger flashed through his eyes.

"You're angry with me for not keeping promises that never got made? No, now when I tell you I won't leave, it's because I won't."

"What if I want you to?"

"I thought I was supposed to be the coward. Never thought you would turn out to be worse, Teresa Lisbon. Maybe I will need a butterfly net to catch pork chops yet."

She did not respond for a couple of minutes, needing to take the sting out of her heart. "Did you spend much time in the rural South while you were gone?"

"No, why?"

"Just wondering where the hell you got 'butterfly net to catch pork chops' from."

"I came up with it myself, just now."

"So is this senile dementia or were you always this strange and I've just forgotten?"

"What, it's a metaphor. And a subtle allusion to 'A Lion in Winter'. Don't pretend you didn't understand what it meant, or that you didn't miss my colorful discourse."

"Yes, Jane, your colorful discourse is what I was so heartbroken over." As she said this, the hint of a smile that had crept into his eyes disappeared.

"I'm sorry I hurt you. Every day I wished I could have done something different. But you were safe, and I needed that more than anything. So every day I knew I did the best thing for you."

"Patrick, the best thing would have been to let me run my own risks and face the danger with you. You made a decision for both of us you didn't have the right to. And it changed how I felt about you. One true thing you said then was that we don't get a happy ending. I want you to leave. Please go."

"I'll walk out your door now, but I'm not leaving again."

She raised her eyebrow at him.

"Call a cab for me. I'll wait outside." He stepped up to her, leaned in and kissed her cheek. "See you later."

She did make the call for him, and watched him through lace curtains while he waited. Part of her wanted to bring him back inside, and part of her wanted to vanish so he could not wear her down with his presence, no matter how indirectly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: When I wrote "Scarlet Runner Vines", I worded the the description of that place in the woods very carefully. Look closely and you will see that there is only one body there. Jane being alive now is not a ret-con. Muahahahahaahha! Mine is an evil laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days later, Lisbon got a call from an excited Van Pelt. Jane had bumped into her at noontime and they had had lunch together. He had asked her to walk him through all the paperwork of resurrecting himself. And he wanted to have a small return-to-life party. Van Pelt was helping him track down anyone who might want to come.

Lisbon felt blindsided. A flat-out refusal to come would necessitate explaining why. Still there was the old fall-back of work. She made a show of checking her calendar and discovering an event that was too important and delicate to delegate.

At the party, Van Pelt apologized to Jane for Lisbon's absence. He gave her his best charming smile and thanked her for all her efforts in planning. Then he set out to charm all his guests. In one way or another, he had contacted various friends and acquaintances to offer some explanation for his disappearance beforehand, so that eased some of the clumsiness of the situation. He was so very much the life of the party that only the red-haired hostess guessed that his smiles were just a bit too bright to be natural.

Over the next couple of months, he made a point of bumping into Lisbon downtown at least once a week. He inserted himself into her sundae-eating ritual. She did not encourage him, but she was not frosty or unkind when they met. He developed the habit of going for evening walks in her neighborhood, casually walking past her house a couple of times a week in between the times they met face to face. He did not linger in front of her house when he did so. He was hoping at some point to randomly, or what passed for random in his schemes and plans, catch her out doing yard work and invite himself in again.

The first time Jane joined her at the roof-top cafe, he did not greet her. He simply sat down at her table with his cup of tea and a blueberry muffin. Lisbon had a mouthful of ice cream, so it took a moment before she could speak. It gave her a moment to let go of the tiny flutter of pleasure, longing, and pain that went through her heart at the sight of him.

"Nice to see you too, Jane," she said. "As it happens, that seat isn't taken. Feel Free."

"I see you've been honing your sarcastic wit while I was away."

"Actually, I didn't need it as much with you gone. But I've put in a lot of practice time since you showed up."

"A palpable hit, Lisbon."

"That's hardly the worst thing anyone ever said to you. It's not even the worst thing I ever said to you."

"No, as I recall, the harshest thing you ever said to me was that punch in the nose while I solved the Seberg case for you."

"Let your fingers do the walking and your knuckles do the talking," she said with a hint of wry grin on her face.

"I think I prefer the sarcasm."

"Sorry. On my pension, cheap jokes are all I can afford."

"Aren't you going to offer me a bite?"

"Get your own sundae! Oh, wait, were you expecting me to say, 'Sure, where would you like me to bite you?'"

"I'm glad you didn't."

She finished her ice cream and he finished his muffin in mostly comfortable silence. When they got up to leave their goodbyes were stilted and awkward. Neither really wanted to part, but Jane dared not express that.

Lisbon worked to convince herself that the awkwardness was a sign of her lack of feelings for him, that falling back into old habits of ease in his presence harked back to the days when they were merely partners on the job.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Many thanks to AllegraDante, tromana, TwilightLover-CarlisleandEsme, LittleMender, Little-Firestar84, MeltedChocoButton, RavenClaw01, Golightly11, and SteeleSims for your reviews. Your encouragement means so much. And the feedback helps me to know when what I write affects my readers the way I want it to. Dear Readers, please applaud them, because without their encouragement it would be difficult to keep my nose to the grindstone. Reviews really are love.

One evening as Jane passed by Lisbon's house, he could hear the sound of a saxaphone - too real, too vibrant, too imperfect to be a recording. He smiled. Pride in her swelled, together with a certain ache. He knew if he had been here over the years, she would not have taken up the instrument again. She would have been too occupied with him. She would not have been searching for an outlet for her soul and heart. He had not meant to stop here tonight, but his heart seized in his chest and he needed to see her. He was up the steps and on her front porch, hanging on the doorbell before he could think twice.

When she opened the door, he could not speak for a moment. His eyes roved hungrily over her face, coming to rest on her lips. When he started leaning toward her, she put a hand up between them.

Eyes wide, she said, "Don't."

"Please."

"Please, what?"

"Please, Teresa, let me in. Just to talk."

She stepped aside and he walked through the door.

"I'll make you some tea," she offered.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. You have a choice of blueberry or loose leaf English breakfast tea that has been in my kitchen since I moved in here. I think it was a house-warming present from Rigsby."

"English breakfast that's past it's prime has to be better than blueberry tea. What possessed you to get it?" Jane asked.

"Annabeth. When she was pregnant, she wanted it. And I kind of like it, too, so I keep it around."

"Annie has a baby?"

"Annie has a kindergardener and a baby. And, incidentally, a badge," Lisbon said as she lead him into her kitchen.

"Like auntie, like niece."

"Not quite. She's managing to have a life outside of her job at a much earlier age than I figured it out."

Conversation lagged for a few minutes as she began making tea.

"I don't know how to apologize to you for that," Jane said, thinking about her previous statement.

"Don't. That, at least, is not your fault. It was a choice I made long before you came into the picture."

"I could have - "

"You could have, what? Interfered with my life because interfering with my job wasn't enough of a challenge?"

"When you put it that way, maybe not. But as a friend, I could have encouraged... something. I was too selfish."

"Jane - "

"Patrick," he insisted.

"Jane, a drowning man isn't selfish." She fell silent for a few moments then continued, "In the early days when it would have mattered, you had enough trouble just keeping yourself afloat. By the time you had the wherewithal to spare a thought for anyone else's life, it was too late."

"It's not too late. And it can't be too late for us," he said, stretching the topic to cover their relationship.

She focussed her attention on the tea, pouring a splash of milk into earthenware mugs, motioning at the sugar to him so he could help himself, then pouring the tea. She lead him toward her dining room where they sat down at the table together.

"You do still have feelings for me. Van Pelt told me - "

"Van Pelt told you what?"

"She told me that you still withdraw whenever someone mentions me. That isn't because there's nothing left. Don't pretend to be understanding and forgiving; we both know that's just a cover for your anger. You wouldn't be so angry if you didn't still love me."

"I'm not angry, Jane."

"Patrick. And yes, you are."

"Jane, it's just the ghost of anger, a habit of emotion. The real anger died out years ago. You coming back here, thinking we can get back what we had - it's a silly, romantic notion - something out of an Andrew Greeley novel. But it doesn't happen in real life because people eventually get over things."

"No - You may be done being angry about the handcuffs, but you aren't done being angry about me staying away for so long and then coming back. I am not over you. And you - you said love doesn't die. I hurt you so badly that you are afraid to try again, and I understand that. But I will do whatever penance you give me to show you how sorry I am. You have to give me the chance to make it up to you."

"I remember what I said. You're forgetting the part about how love changes. Mine changed a lot over the years. You know what it's like loving a ghost. After a while the love becomes a ghost, too. Just like the anger. You can't make it up to me."

He put his mug down, got up and paced the room. "I'm not a ghost. You know I had to leave. But I'm back now, and I can show you how much I love you."

He stood in front of her, getting closer. One hand rose to her face, and he caressed her, tracing designs over her cheek, over her forehead, until his thumb brushed over her lips. Seeing her eyes darken, he pulled his chair closer to sit directly in front of her. Jane reached out to caress her face once more. Moving closer he brushed his nose against hers. His lips followed the path his thumb had over her lips, barely touching, wakening her awareness of how her lips wanted his. When he looked in her eyes again, he saw tears forming so he waited before pushing closer.

She put her hands up to his chest to hold him off. She did not have the strength to push him away. She was hurting so much. "Please, Patrick. Please go."

"How can I? I did this to you. Let me stay and make it better. Give me the chance."

She pulled away from him and turned, twisting so her back was toward him. She said, "I used to wonder, when you first left - if I could have been happy going away with you. It might have been an adventure, hiding out, staying on the move, finding clandestine ways to keep in contact with my family. Sometimes I was sure it would have been too hard. But I always wondered why you didn't give me the choice. And then they found fragments - fragments - of your car. So I stopped wondering."

"Lisbon, you would never have been happy and I knew it. On the run, next to no contact with the people you care about - your career and your family meant too much to you. You would have hated it."

"You were wrong to make the choice for me."

He stood and paced the room once more. "Red John made it for both of us. When I confronted him, he told me he had his people watching you. His organization was much bigger than I ever imagined - shadows cast in government, in religion, in finance, in the state police and the FBI. He threatened your family. He said even if I beat him, he would still win because he had left orders if I returned but he did not, his followers were to start by killing your nieces and nephews, then your sisters-in-law and brothers. And then they would take you." Jane unbuttoned his vest and pulled his shirt up to reveal a rough scar on his abdomen. "They weren't going to kill you, though. Red John cut me here when he started smiling and talking about his plans for you. I don't remember much after that. When my head cleared, he was dead, and I needed stitches in six places."

He shook his head. It was not a negation but a shudder. "Maybe you and I could have run, but your family - there was no way we could protect them all and you would never leave them. Red John had someone lined up to cut you, scar you, brand smiling faces into your flesh. He would wear a hyper-realistic mask with my face on it while he tortured you and raped you."

He paused for a moment then started again, "So look at me and tell me that was not my decision. Look at me, Teresa!" He stalked toward her, framed her face with his hands and made her meet his eyes. "Tell me how stopping that wasn't my choice to make."

Understanding at his horror and desperation made its way through her. Lisbon's pain and pride deflated under his gaze, but she could not speak. She put her hand over one of his, and pulled him to sit in front of her again. She continued to hold his hand for some time, sitting in shocked silence.

After an unknown amount of time passed, she found her voice, thick and hoarse with shock. "What did you do after that?"

He gulped down the rest of his tea, then got up and found a bottle of whiskey on the sideboard. He splashed a liberal amount into each of their mugs and held hers up to her to urge her to drink before attempting to answer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Previously:
> 
> After an unknown amount of time passed, she found her voice, thick and hoarse with shock. "What did you do after that?"
> 
> He gulped down the rest of his tea, then got up and found a bottle of whiskey on the sideboard. He splashed a liberal amount into each of their mugs and held hers up to her to urge her to drink before attempting to answer.

He sat silently for a few moments then he continued his explanation. "I bandaged myself up as best I could, took care of the car, then walked until someone offered me a ride to the nearest doctor. Very small town. Very old country doctor. She had seen enough marijuana growers and drug smugglers, so she did not ask many questions - just stitched me up, gave me a pint of saline solution and some IV antibiotics. She wanted me to stay a couple days so she could keep an eye on my wounds. Hints that my mere presence was a danger not just to her but to her neighbors convinced her to let me go.

"I wandered a lot, eventually made my way to Gibsonton, Florida. It's not 'rural South' the way you meant it. Only a few carnival folk who remember me still winter there, but enough so I could go to ground safely. Insular community, wary of outsiders, perfect place to nurse my wounds and do some thinking. The first solution that came to mind was reaching out to the mob - who knows more about deeply entrenched criminal organizations than an organized crime boss? It made sense, but it didn't taste right. While I was debating that, I met a guy 'who knew a guy' who, shall we say, solves big problems on a freelance basis. Ex-CIA, didn't part ways amicably with his official employment, a little too principled to sell his skills to a mercenary company.

"We worked together for years. I helped him solve other problems, and helped him generate more income from them. We ate a lot of yogurt. He helped me hunt down Red John's people. Most of them ended up dead, mostly at their own hands, a few because they were determined to die rather than be taken. The most notable was a man very similar to me in height and build, who had a very interesting collection of disguises - some we kept, one we destroyed. It was after that, using one of the disguises, that I first dared to come back and see you. My partner's lady friend read me the riot act about being too afraid to contact you directly."

Jane fell silent again, he poured himself more whiskey and tossed it back.

"I was still scared that we had not uprooted enough of Red John's followers, that going back to you openly would put your family in danger. The little information we gleaned from the small handful who lived long enough to talk did not put me at ease. When we got to the end of my friend's resources and there was nothing more he could do, he put me in touch with someone who had apprenticed with Nazi-hunters, who specialized in this kind of long-game pursuit. Worked with her for the last seven years. We finally saw the light at the end of the tunnel last year. I waited a while to be sure it was daylight and not another train. I was still afraid, but she threatened to tie me up and leave me on your doorstep if I didn't come on my own. So here I am."

He had been looking at her face as he spoke, but now he looked away. "I worked so hard, so long for you. Please. Please let me love you again. Let me touch you, let me hold you. I've lived in exile for so long, don't leave me to die in the desert."

By the end of his tale, Lisbon was trembling with the effort to hold back tears. She watched, feeling like a spectator in her own body as her hand reached out to his face. Turning his face to hers, she brushed her lips over his - once, twice, and a third time. "Die in the desert?" she said, bracing herself.

"Hyperbole, my dear," he said, a hint of grin passing over his mouth. "I feel old and tired, dried up and worn out when I think of facing the rest of my life without you. I am not dying any faster than most other men my age."

"Oh God, Patrick," she said between gulps of air. She could no longer hold her tears back, release and relief washing over her like a Spring snow melt. "I was afraid for a moment there was something more you had to tell me."

"I see that." He caressed the tears from her cheeks, and pressed his lips to hers again. "I'm sorry."

"It's OK. You're OK. You're still a jerk, but you're OK. You came back." Teresa said then she inhaled a ragged breath and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

His arms went around her waist. He stood up and she came with him. It could have been forever, it could have been a minute - they did nothing but hold each other, basking in the warmth, the solidity, the strength of their bodies' embrace.

"Will you come away with me this weekend?" Patrick asked.

"I have to work. There's an event Friday, I have to be on-site from 2 PM until the small hours. What about leaving now?"

"Tonight? Teresa, you amaze me. Where would we go on such short notice?"

"Anywhere. I don't care. Just get in the car and drive then find a place when we don't want to drive anymore. I don't have to be back until Friday morning. All the prep work has been done. My assistant can handle whatever last minute issues come up. That gives us three days."

"Mountains or beach?"

"Either, or both. Just get me out of here before I start thinking too much again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: Many thanks to tromana and Little Firestar84 for reviewing chapter four. And a special thank you goes out to LittleMender for helping me refine my ideas of how Jane would go about the hunt.


	6. Chapter 6

No longer getting called to go out of town for investigations on short notice, Lisbon had lost the habit of having a just-in-case bag packed. It did not take her long to grab a couple changes of clothes, and she quickly grabbed a little black dress on the off chance of dining somewhere particularly nicer than her usual cop dives. The memory of a jaunt out to Napa in a sweet sports car with Jane once upon a time spurred that choice. As for Jane, his years on the hunt had left its mark on his habits; he invariably had at least one change of clothing, plus various other supplies in his car. By the time they got on the road the sun was getting low in the sky. East was the easiest direction to drive. Once they got up into the mountains, the sun was not even glaring in the rearview mirror.

The night became dark enough to feel as though they were in a tunnel, traveling into the depths of what earth or through eons of what millennia neither could say. So seldom does the human animal experience windows of time completely dedicated to the presence of a single other human animal that expressions for it and frames for thinking of it do not exist.

The atmosphere in Jane's car pressed down on them as though gravity was working overtime. It made it impossible for them to make light conversation. Getting reacquainted would have been the rational thing to do, yet the years that had come between them seemed both too enormous and also too unimportant to voice. Talk would not have increased their intimacy. The time and distance that had separated them were not to be overcome by words. This was not the comfortable, companionable silence of two old friends; it was a state of being. As they settled into their journey, their essences bonded, blended together.

* * *

They leaned together, cuddled up on the sofa of their suite at a resort casino on the Nevada side of Lake Tahoe. Drinking tea, watching the end of one movie, their minds refocussed on one another. Sitting so close, their bodies became wrapped up in each other. Once again talking was too much. Fingers explored hair. Noses drew in warmth and scent and peace. Mouths came together. Hands stroked skin and removed clothing. Legs parted. The flesh of one invaded the flesh of the other, sweet hot blending of soul and spirit promised in the past, hinted at on their journey, come to full fruit, ready to harvest now, sacramental wine pressed and passed from one to the other.

-Fin-


End file.
